


This Message Could Not Be Delivered

by Emily_Nicaoidh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Bisexual John Watson, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_Nicaoidh/pseuds/Emily_Nicaoidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is undercover in Eastern Europe and unreachable by text, so Watson impersonates him to Lestrade to solve a case. It's not like he did it on purpose...by the time Sherlock gets back to Baker St, things may have gotten out of hand in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adagio

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of a multichapter work. How many? Not sure yet. Depends how long it takes Sherlock to get back to Baker St....
> 
> This is also my first attempt at fanfic in a loooooong time so if anyone wants to be a beta reader, I would love the input (and I would be happy to return the favour and beta read your stuff.)
> 
> ETA: I have a beta reader, the lovely Unpopcultural. Thank you <3

Chapter 1: Adagio

“So is he coming or what?“ Lestrade takes short, irritable drink of his coffee, which smells like stewed cigarette butts. 

“I don’t know where he is, frankly” is what comes out instead of something well thought out, because it’s the truth. I haven’t seen Sherlock since he got on a plane six months ago after shooting someone who in my opinion seriously deserved it. So far I’ve managaed to put Lestrade off with endless repetitions of “he said he’d be back soon when I talked to him Friday“ while I identify the cause of death of some poor sod (which I’m sure he already knew, there is an actual medical examiner at the police after all) and pretend I have to be at the surgery before he starts asking too many questions about Sherlock. Because I haven’t talked to him Friday, I haven’t talked to him at all in months, haven’t heard anything from him in any way that I can figure out. No emails, no phone calls, nothing at all. 

I’ve tried texting him, of course. I’m not dense. 

Another case from L--he wants you here JW  
This message could not be delivered.  
Not sure if you’re reading this or not JW  
This message could not be delivered.  
If anyone could come up with a way to make their phone answer that but actually be reading the texts it’d be you right JW  
This message could not be delivered.  
Oh piss off. JW 

Messy one today. Looks like a standard jumped in front of a train suicide JW  
This message could not be delivered.  
Lestrade not buying excuses this time JW  
This message could not be delivered.  
where the hell are you ?? JW  
This message could not be delivered.

I’ve started bringing a few things with me when Lestrade calls, not much, just a few things to help me identify the cause of death faster so that I can get away from Lestrade and his questions faster. Every time it’s the same--“Where’s Sherlock“ “You alone again” and “Just like him, leaving with no explanation“ and more questions I can’t answer. Doesn’t he know I want those questions answered more than he does, more than anyone else probably? He’s not Lestrade’s flatmate, he’s mine, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask to want to know where he is. 

 

“We’ve absolutely nothing to go on here, we need Sherlock,” Lestrade mutters into his coffee. 

Oh, brilliant deduction, I think. Well, he’s clearly not going to let me leave until I give him something, so come on Watson, think of something. Give him some detail he hasn’t already noticed so you can get out of here. (That won’t be too hard--Lestrade doesn’t notice much.) Think Watson, think. What’s here, or what’s not here, what would he be thinking. 

It’s more than what would he be thinking, though--what would he be seeing? What am I not seeing? What does he see, when he stands in front of a broken window or a body? All those details, all linked together, a path of tiny facts leading to an unassailable conclusion. It’s amazing, really. 

I take a picture with my phone and squint at it. In the dimly lit underground station the tracks are barely visible. (Wait, why is it dimly lit? Are the lights out?)

“Why are the lights out?” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Lestrade answers. 

“Something to do with maintenance, waiting for someone to replace a burnt out bulb,” he says, clearly irritated. Well I’m sorry Lestrade, that makes no sense at all. This is London. Lights in tube stations are not just left burnt out for hours on end. And even if they were, what’s the likelihood that five out of the er.....counting...seven light fixtures in this station are all burnt out at the same time? It seems unlikely to me. I’m not him or anything but isn’t there something funny about that? 

I’m not paying any attention to Lestrade at all now, just took another picture of the part of the tracks where the victim clearly was when he? she? don’t know; didn’t ask was hit. But those lights, though. 

“Hang on--could you get someone to bring a ladder?” I really want to look inside those light fixtures. All but two all gone out at the same time? In a busy tube station in central London? On a weekday? And just left that way? Probably not, right? Someone would have fixed it. All five of them going out, on their own like that, at the same time? 

“What, a ladder? What for?“ Lestrade looks mildly curious now. “What’s he saying?“ 

“Sorry, what?“

Lestrade guestures at my phone. “Him, on there, what’s he saying?” 

“No, I’m just--” Wait a minute. He thinks I’m texting Sherlock. Glance down at my phone again-surgery supposed to open in 10 minutes and I’m not there. If I can get a cab it’s only 8 minutes away...I’ll explain later. 

“He says to have a look at the light fixtures, that there might be something in there, I don’t know, he doesn’t say what. Just that it’s unlikely that so many would go out at once and be left that way.“ I put my phone back in my pocket, pick up my bag. “I’m opening the surgery today so I’ve got to go.” Start walking away quickly, get away before he can ask me any more questions. 

Glance back at Lestrade. 

“I don’t know what the lights could have to do with a suicide, but tell him that we’ll check it out, and if he comes up with anything else let me know, all right?”


	2. Lento Non Troppo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in Eastern Europe somewhere...

Hidden in a tree outside Dmanisi cathedral ruins. Georgia. Night settles over the hills, and the sounds of crickets start to overtake the chirps of birds as the passeriformes settle down for the night. It will be a long night, and likely as uneventful as the past few nights. 

There. That moment, only distinguishable if you’re looking for it, and sometimes then only in that instant after it has passed, when night falls. That precise angle where the sun is no longer bright enough even to call it dusk...in spite of the stiff back, the sore knees from the climb up the tree (fell out twice, one of those times landed wrong, on the bad ankle--will have to get that looked at if, when? ...if he makes it back to London) he breathes out a little contented sigh. The game, indeed. Would be more pleasant (read: less stiff and cold and achy, or at least more tolerably stiff and cold and achy) with certain company, but--not this time. Couldn’t risk it.

A faint blue glow in his hand.   
Realized I never told you that I didn’t get to tell L that wasn’t you texting me earlier today--might have sent him on a bit of a fool’s errand this morning I’m afraid. JW  
This message could not be delivered. 

His fingertips over over the screen, debating. Answer? No. That would defeat the entire purpose. Shouldn’t be too much longer. Wait just a little longer, John.

Anyway I don’t know why I’m still texting you, it’s not like you’re getting any of these at all, wherever you are. JW  
This mesage could not be delivered.   
After last time...I’m just not ready for you to be gone again. JW  
This message could not be delivered.   
Oh hell why’d I send that. You’re already gone. Getting sentimental, ignore. JW.   
This message could not be delivered. 

Is six months and eight days too long, he wonders? Did the last disappearance (necessary) make the situation at Baker Street more fragile than he had previously thought? Unclear. More evidence needed to make a conclusion. Need to revisit Baker Street...once/if this is ever resolved. 

There. A light in the distance, a campfire, perhaps, in the ruins? The glow partly shielded by the crumbled stone, but that is definitely a campfire of some sort. Idiots. After all these careful months? If they were going to be this sloppy, why not do it at the beginning and spare his knees and foot (shifts weight: ankle definitely broken. Likely simple fracture, as no bone protruding. Wishing there was a medical man on this mission. But then, this wasn’t supposed to be survivable. Indend to both complete mission and survive it to spite Mycroft.)

Phone in hand again, this time to verify that the telescoping camera lens extensionis still in place. More discreet to take a few pictures and study those than to haul binoculars up this absurd tree. And there they are. The five men that he has been tracking for months, finally all converged around a campfire. The four that Mycroft has suspected and the arms dealer himself (in person? Truly an idiot) that Mycroft thought they had been in contact with all around the same campfire in the absolute middle of godforsaken nowhere, and for all appearances completely unaware they were being observed and photographed. 

Simplest way to resolve this: dispatch them all with a sniper rifle. They are well within range of the gun that Mycroft insisted he take along, six months ago. The gun that he lost in a flood four months ago. Mission objectives: determine if suspects have been in contact with illegal arms dealer, and if suspicions proved correct, neutralize them in the most expedient and unnewsworthy manner; lethal force permitted. 

But at this stage of the game...to crudely shoot them out of a forest would be inelegant, barbarous. Someone would find the bodies, eventually, remote as these ruins were. The bullets might be analyzed. Of course Mycroft was meticulous, gave him a type of rifle that is common in the Balkans and rather rare elsewhere, but still. Shooting them would leave open the possibility that something, however small, could be traced back to the Home Office, creating yet another mess that an accountant might choose to dump on his unfortunate younger brother. No, better to deal with this in a more tidy way. 

As the light from the campfire begins to dim, he thinks he hears for the first time raised voices. Good. One waves his automatic weapon around, pointint it at no one bust gesturing wildly. Another voice, deeper than the first, also heated. Someone has found the note he left, then. They’re meant to all think that one of the others has ratted them out, that Interpol are on their way out of Tbilisi, have in fact been on their way for some minutes, and are likely (barring some absurd accident) already in the woods nearby. (The woods to the west of the embankment, he heavily implied, in order to direct suspicion away from the eastern woods where he kept watch. If these men were half as intelligent as Mycroft had given them credit for at the beginning, this gambit would not have worked. But fortunately, they were idiots.)

Another few moments of quiet then, before...there is is. The first shot. He doesn’t suppose that he would be so lucky as for that shot to actually hit someone, but it does. Curses, and a moan, and then three more shots in quick succession. He snaps few more photographs with his phone, zooms in on the area around the orange firelight. Two bodies are on the ground, one man standing with a semiautomatic held at ready, one man frozen in the act of fleeing into the (east, the opposite of where he thinks Interpol are) woods, one missing. 

No: one more on the ground, actually fallen into the fire. He finds himself hoping that the man was dead before he hit the fire. War criminals and aspiring terrorist cell they may have been, after trailing these men for over six months he felt a certain kinship. One sided, of course. This absurdly simple ruse could hardly have worked if they were even the slightest bit suspicious that a tail existed at all. 

That’s two left then, even better than he had dared hope. Almost even odds, better than even really (favouring him) had he not lost aforementioned rifle, had an (almost certainly) broken ankle, and been completely stark naked sixty feet up in an extremely fragile seeming tree. 

Hardly ideal, but: make do. Deal with these two, and then retrieve the stash of supplies that is (hopefully) still hidden in a hollow in another tree, then get out. Spite Mycroft with survival. 

Just a little bit longer, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This is my first foray into writing fanfic in quite awhile, so is anyone wants to beta read they are most welcome. I would of course be happy to return the favour and beta read your work.


	3. Piu Agitato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is embarrassed by the text messages he keeps sending even though his rational brain insists that Sherlock is not seeing them.

Disregard any texts recieved last night, if you did receive them. Was slightly drunk. JW  
This message could not be delivered.  
I mean I’m basically assuming by now you don’t see any of this, not sure why I’m writing it. Maybe as a reminder of what I want to tell you about when you get back. JW  
This message could not be delivered.  
You are coming back right you better be. JW

“How nice that you’re working together again,“ Mrs. Hudson says, setting a flowered teapot on the table and pulling out a chair for herself. 

“Sorry, what?” I look up from pouring tea. “I didn’t--” My phone buzzes and I turn it over: an emergency at the surgery. Seems someone has come in with what is probably scarlet fever, from the way Sarah is describing it. 

“We’re not really,” I say, to put this silly idea out of her head. Drain the tea, grab coat and umbrella, head towards the door. 

“You really do help him, you know,” Mrs. Hudson insists, following me to the door. “I know you don’t think that what you do helps, but it does, having someone to talk to.” Well, that was not exactly where I was trying to go with that...I don’t stay to argue the point, not with a possible case of a highly infectious disease that is entirely preventable by a simple vaccine sitting in my waiting room. As I hurry down the stairs (17) I’m glad at least that 221B is only a few blocks from the surgery. That was most of the reason I’d stayed on here after he left, to be honest...some of the reason. Part of the reason. At a minimum, a fraction of the reason. 

Besides, WHEN he comes back, who knows what kind of condition he’ll be in? Could be an absolute mess, it’s happened before, and with him its usually the kind of mess that it’s best not to go to emergency with. If I’m still living here when he comes back, if it’s a mess (he’s a mess, he’s always a mess) then, well. I’m his doctor and I’ll patch him up. 

I’m not daydreaming about it or anything! It’s not like that. (Is it like that, with him, ever, with anyone? How would I know?) I’m just sketching out an idea, just getting a plan in place so I can do what I need to do if the situation comes up. I mean, I’ve always got a few things on hand at Baker St. Just being practical. With his line of work I never know what condition he’s going to show up in. 

You think you could come down here a bit and take a look at this, see what he thinks? GL  
Sorry, got a possible scarlet fever at the surgery. JW  
I’m sending you pictures of the crime scene, just forward them to him and see what he says GL

A couple of photos of the inside of a burnt out house, a picture of an obituary of a partner in a minor London law firm, and finally a single question mark. Excellent work, Greg, outstanding really. A lawyer is dead and his house is thoroughly burned. Was it acutally safe to go inside to take those pictures? Seems risky considering you aren’t even getting him to look at it. 

No time, at the surgery. JW  
It doesn’t take time to hit the forward button! Come on, send it to him. He really came through for us on that last one. GL

What? I drop my coat on my chair, change to the lab coat. Put my stethoscope around my neck, great, completely look the part of a doctor who is seriously concerned about this possible scarlet fever case and not obsessing over whatever in hell his flatmate is getting up to several time zones away (I assume? Mycroft said Eastern Europe after all) without me. 

Apparently my lack of a reply spurs Lestrade into further loquaciousness; that, or he has nothing better to do while standing at a crime scene because he’s completely forgotten how to solve crimes on his own. 

Ok, that was a bit uncalled for. Anyway, my phone beeps again.

He was spot on about those lights last week. The power had been cut to them, and Donovan thought to check the CCTV from the past couple days and found a recording of someone actually cutting the lines. Turns out we already had him in custody for a spot of vandalism and when Donovan told him about the CCTV he confessed the whole thing! Pushed that woman in front of the train, well, she was already dead of course, that was just the coverup. GL

Well, I do not care in the slightest about Lestrade’s weird breakthrough. I have a potential scarlet fever (oh I hope not) case to see to. I put on a mask and go out to the exam room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still with me after that hiatus, thank you for reading! I've been sitting on this chapter for about a week now...I wasn't quite satisfied with it when I first wrote it, and then family wedding/reunion made things pretty hectic. Anyway, here it is! 
> 
> As always, I'll repeat my call for beta readers: I'm getting back into writing fanfic after a several year break, so if anyone wants to beta read I will seriously consider all offers!


	4. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock plans his escape back to Britian, and might have just given away that he's been reading all of John's messages all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As the work schedule starts to settle down I'm hoping to start posting more regularly.

As far as evenings go, waking up in a landfill was not (to date) his worst. Close, though. The entire premise was the problem, he thought. A (supposedly) fatal mission by nature did not come with an extraction plan. At least the supplies stashed in the woods before the stakeout was (mostly) untouched. Rodents(mephitus mephitus, judging from the odor) appeared to have gotten into the bag of food, but the important part (clothes and phone charger) were still there. Without a passport or identification of any kind (Mycroft’s idea again-no point in secrecy if a week afterwards some peasant find a body with Sherlock Holmes’ passport in its all-too-recognizable coat pocket) getting back into Britain was going to be a lengthy (and possibly illegal) process. 

Scaret fever scare at the surgery today. Fortunately just a weird flu. JW  
This message could not be delivered.   
You would have liked it, though. Would have said patient was suffering from paranoid delusions. JW  
This message could not be delivered.   
It hurts like hell having you gone, you know that right? JW  
This mess

Pause. That’s new. Finger hovers over the screen--a second’s pause before it sends the rest. Ridiculous to write it out every time. Sentimental. But he was reasonably certain that John didn't know how fast he could type, and was therefore assuming that these messages were automatically generated by his phone. That was the point of them, after all. He should have just written a script, set his phone to send them automatically, but that felt too much like ignoring John and he couldn't quite do it. Instead he answered every single message, with this answer that was not an answer. 

age could not be delivered. 

Surely John isn’t looking at his phone, now. He won’t notice the held breath, the moment of hesitation. He’s at the surgery. Probably sent that in between patients. He’ll find it later, and Sherlock’s cover won’t be ruined, he’ll still be safely hidden away in this garbage heap somewhere east of Turkey. He won’t notice the almost answer. He’s won’t notice anything.

Well. Lots to plan, supplies to gather, European Union borders to sneak across before dawn. 

As far as sneaking into the EU was concerned, he was pretty sure he had the ideal route already mapped out in his mind. The difficult part would be the five straight days of walking (twenty hours by car, if he could hitchhike the whole way, but that could not be counted upon) to a port town in Turkey, chosen for the proliferation of tourists that would be present there at this time of year. Busy enough with tourists that a man speaking with received pronunciation attempting to rent a boat would be assumed to be a sport fisher(especially once he had gathered the necessary fishing accessories, secondhand so that he would look appropriately dedicated to fishing) rather than an asiring illegal immigrant to the EU. Ideal for his purposes, once that tiny detail of the inconvient thousand kilometers across Turkey were crossed.


	5. Presto, molto agitato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this one....work has calmed down a bit and I hope to be posting more frequently.

2:33 AM

Police sirens blaring from the street wake me up, and I roll over to check my phone. Battery dead. I lean off the edge of the bed, fishing around on the floor for the charger, and plug it in. How long has it been dead for? What if?   
No, no what if. If (WHEN, some part of my mind insists, he said WHEN not if when he left) he comes back it’s going to be like last time, appearing out of nowhere, all barely concealed glee at his newest disguise, crowing about how long he’s been following me around without me noticing--

Got to stop thinking about that. It was bad enough last time and I’m only making it worse. Wait a few minutes, let the phone get charged up enough to turn on, and check the time and see if I can get any more sleep before I have to be at the surgery. Early shift tomorrow: a scheduled surgery, non-emergency procedure, patient will have fasted beforehand, maybe not slept much the night before. Cranky, scared. So there’s that to look forward to.

Finally the phone lights up. 3:37 AM, and a ding. Thought I’d turned the ringer off? 

This mess  
age could not be delivered

 

The same message I’m used to seeing is divided into two little blue bubbles on the screen, dated several hours ago, from just after my phone died I guess. There’s a vague, fuzzy thought, like maybe that signifies something--seems important--but before I can work out exactly what I’m asleep again.

3:14 AM  
It’s one of those weeks again, I can already tell. I keep telling myself it’s not like last time, but the hollow feeling doesn’t listen, maybe can’t listen, and it whispers in the night or in the surgery in between patients or when I’m waiting in line at prêt-   
it’s just like last time  
like last time  
And I hear “Goodbye, John” in the exact same tone  
why would he do that, why would he say it the exact same way as last time he’s not random, not imprecise like that--  
if he said it the same way it’s because he meant it the same way  
not coming back?   
Unacceptable. 

 

4:53 AM

Well, hardly any point trying to sleep another half hour, may as well get up. Half a liver to remove at 6:30, and it doesn’t hardly inspire confidence when your doctor’s half asleep.

The surgery goes well. I leave my phone in my locker which turns out to be a good job because Lestrade has sent me no fewer than eight text messages by the time I check it after scrubbing out and getting back into my civilian clothes. 

Got a really weird one this time GL   
(another picture of that burnt out house from the other day) GL  
Well I know you sent it to him, what does he say? GL  
Why aren’t you telling me anything GL  
I know you’re awake, it’s bloody 11 AM already GL  
I know you sent it to him too you always do GL  
Quit keeping secrets GL  
what if there’s a serial killer out there and ill never know cause u aren’t telling me what he said! GL

Some series spelling mistakes on that last one--Lestrade must be really mad. 

Not your pet detective. JW 

A little harsh but seriously Lestrade, I had my hands inside some poor drunk’s liver for half the morning, have a little respect.

No, you’re my pet detective’s pet. TELL ME WHAT HE SAID GL

Alright, now that’s just out of line. I’m not his pet. What the hell, Lestrade.

Well what do you want, sending me the same picture over and over. I’m not going to send it to him twice. JW

Not the same picture! Taken 3 days later. GL

I tap the picture, enlarging it on the phone screen a little. It looks the same. 

Are you sure JW

YES I AM SURE it is a different picture, took the damn thing myself now SEND IT TO HIM GL

The locker room’s not so well lit (bet he’d have a thing or two to say about that-“perfect setting for a murder-the killer could be hiding practically anywhere and you wouldn’t see him with your eyes glued to your phone screen”) and I need to do some paperwork anyway, so I head down the hall to my (“Dull!” he would say) office where I’ve got a desk lamp that has a pretty strong light. 

Well, what do you know. It is a different picture and now I can see it:

Smudge on the wall above the coat hooks-left side. That wasn’t there in the earlier picture. JW

See, was that so difficult? Who cares about the dirty wall though. GL

Well, who’s been in the house since the last pic? JW

Nobody, been cordoned off. Had PCs Jones and Jones stationed out front the whole time. GL

Well did Jones-and-Jones let anybody in JW

No that’s what I’m telling you Sherlock god GL

Lestrade’s irritated and seems to think I am too--impossible to convey tone over these short messages. I’m actually excited, my thumbs twitching over the touchscreen, because I think I’m onto something, and he just thinks I’m repeating what Holmes says. Well. 

No, someone has to have been in there and made that mess on that wall. Find out who that is. Could be important JW

Important how GL

If I knew that I’d probably know who made it but that’s your job to find out, detective inspector JW. 

Ok, that last one I was channeling my inner Holmes I bit. I admit it. I can just picture him standing my the window with that violin, punctuating his words by stabbing at the air with his bow while I read him Lestrade’s latest text, his expression at once irritated with how moronic he thinks Lestrade is being and excited about having found a clue, dictating to me because for some reason he’s decided it’s beneath him to text that day--

Apparently at some point during that last thought I stopped breathing--I can see it so clearly it’s almost like we’re back at Baker street again, everything normal, well, as normal as you get with Holmes as your flatmate--

I’ve got myself into a mess with Lestrade this time, I type. I think I actually just impersonated you on purpose. JW

This message could not be delivered. 

Of bloody course it couldn’t be. The little blue blob with the non-answer, always popping up in the same shape after I send my text to nobody that nobody will ever see. If someone went through my phone they’d see a little army of them after everything I send, all the same, like ants in a row, except for

Why didn’t I see this last night? The last one is different.   
The last one is different.   
How can the last one be different? Isn’t this just some automatically generated delivery-failure message spewed out by whatever code is behind this texting app?   
Isn’t it?

My hands are shaking and I try to set my phone down on the desk but end up dropping it in the waste basket. I fish it out (again: why hands shaking? It’s an error in the app’s code or something. It’s nothing) and hit the little blob at the bottom of the non-conversation that brings up the keyboard, which suddenly seems too small for my hands and I keep hitting wrong keys and having to go back and delete--  
why is this so damn hard  
my hands leave a gross smudge of sweat on the screen of the phone, for crying out loud, and that makes typing even more imprecise--  
autocorrect, where are you when I need you? Finally I manage to get out

ar you readng ths jW  
and figure that’s as good as I’m probably going to get with my damn hands shaking so much and hit SEND

This mess

 

“Doctor Watson, are you alright? I’m sorry I thought I heard a crash--“ Sarah’s opened the door, peeking through it at me with an expression of concern. 

“Yeah no I’m fine, it’s all fine here, thanks Sarah”   
“Are you crying?“   
“I’m not crying you’re crying what the hell, Sarah“ Ok now she is crying, shit Watson what did you do that for.   
“Look, I’m sorry, I’m going through some things,” I say lamely. 

“You mean since your boyfriend...”  
“NO” That was not supposed to come out as a shout. What the hell.  
“Right....sorry Doctor Watson”  
Sigh. “I’m sorry too, Sarah.” 

That is apparently healthy enough a reply that she shuts the door and leaves. I have apparently thrown my phone at the wall (likely source of crash that summoned Sarah) and get up to retrieve it. The screen is cracked. Did not think I threw it that hard. I open the texting app again and stare at the non-message: 

This mess

 

ohmygodohmygodohmygod  
Sherlock are you actually (hit send too soon, hands still shaking)

reading this JW

This message could not

I turn to the wastebin and throw up.


	6. Allegro con fuoco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finds out he was wrong about something; rude texting ensues. Francophone!Sherlock being threatening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Unpopcultural for the beta read and excellent suggestions, and to The Toast (this week's Ask Bear) for the phrase "goat rodeo".

Well well well brother mine, sentiment? How like you. MH

This message could not be delivered. 

Moron. I’m not going to fall for that the way your pet doctor did. Answer me. MH

Sod off. SH

Looks like you’ve shown your hand and not only to the denizens of Baker Street, so to speak. MH

Sod off. SH

You must know I keep a close watch on your little friend. When he received a text message that caused him to vomit into a garbage can, I assumed you were involved and traced the source of that text. How banal, Sherlock. MH

S O D O F F SH

Dear me, Sherlock. That level of profanity a little out of proportion, don’t you think? MH

Is setting me up to be killed by a communist terror cell any way to treat your dear baby brother? I dealt with your little problem, Mycroft. Now leave me the hell alone. SH

Sherlock throws the phone to the deck of the boat in frustration. Mycroft is right--it is sentiment, pure, irrational sentiment, but somehow yesterday evening it seemed very important to drop the hint, to tell him without actually going so far as telling him. To soften the blow, maybe, when he (barring further setbacks) arrives in London sometime next week. He supposes that it’s no longer mission-critical that he remain completely undercover, but he had—rightly—assumed that if anyone found out he had survived this goat rodeo of a mission it would get back to his insufferable brother, and he has had just about enough of Mycroft’s meddling and orders lately. 

But there was always the matter of the phone, and the near-certainty (now validated) that Mycroft was surveilling John quite closely. And if Mycroft couldn’t know that he was (still, stubbornly) alive, then that meant John couldn’t either, at least not in any obvious way. That thinking had kept him anonymous throughout most of the mission.

He had had the text reply, the one he couldn’t make himself actually set as an automatic reply--so that every time John texted him, he was there, fingers blurring over the touchscreen, always writing the same reply. Sometimes it had been a few minutes before he was able to do it--and every time he wondered if John would work it out. If he was timing how long it took for the non-message to get through. Sherlock doubted that, though but lately it had simply gotten too difficult to keep up the farce. After four days on the boat, skirting the southern coast of Europe in his guise as a vacationing fishing aficionado, between the sun and the not-enough food and the aching in his ankle that still had not gone away, something had driven him to make a more obvious move, to give himself away. Not that he had thought sending it from a clone of the original phone would make any difference at all in the end, not with Mycroft with his horrible web, watching at the periphery like a spider--but he had hoped that he might have a bit longer before Mycroft caught on.

Well. It hardly mattered, on his end of the situation. Whether or not John knew he was coming he still had another week at sea at least, until he could reach the eastern coast of Scotland and swap his guide as a hobby fisher for a rucksack and rambling gear and make his way to his outpost bolthole. He glances down at the foot--still purple, larger than the other. Probably infected. Still broken, healing at a substandard rate. He resolves to keep an eye on it (to what end: no doctor on board this boat, if all goes according to plan, no contact with other humans until he’s far inland in Scotland), catalogue the damage. 

“Âllo! Vous-la, vous savez que vous êtes en eaux Française?” A supremely irritating voice draws him out of his thoughts, and Sherlock looks up. He seems to have drifted a bit closer to shore than he intended, and apparently the four occupants of this French coast guard boat are displeased with him.

“Câlisse, ai-je? Quelle port et-ce que c’est, la bas?” Sherlock waves vaguely at the shore. Probability of disguising his RP accent to a native speaker in Metropolitan French: nil. Probability of successfully passing for a native speaker of Québecois French to this Metropolitan speaker: 76%. Probability increases by 8% for each passable Québecois swear. As far as he knows, the public have not yet been made aware (courtesy of John’s blog) of the months he spent undercover in eastern Canada, so there should be no association in the mind of the average European between himself and this dialect. If anything, a rational person would find it far more likely that he would speak Metropolitan.

“C’est Menton,” said the spiky-haired thug impersonating a coast guard officer (poorly fitting uniform; badge in a style two full years out of date, type of gun at the man’s hip not the standard issue). Probably sent by Mycroft to bring him in. “D’ou venez-vous?”

“Mon tabarnak, j’éspere que vous savez déja,” Sherlock spits back, “puisque que vous êtes loué pour me retrouver.“ He really wishes he had a gun at this point. Or any sort of long range weapon. Or any weapon at all.

No sudden movements, nothing that will set off the hair trigger these morons are clearly operating on. He nudges the phone with his bad foot until it’s easily within reach. As soon as they make a move, he’ll duck down and scoop it up. Have to be able to contact John. Going silent again is not an option. (Mycroft’s irritating voice in his head demands that he explain why it is not an option. No. Shut it, Mycroft. File it away and examine later.)

Highest priority: return to London with minimum delay, make contact with John. Capture (imprisonment? Likely, given Mycroft’s irritation about being wrong about anything for the first time in a decade) incompatible with this. Therefore imperative to avoid capture. 

Three of the not-coast guards have pulled out guns.  
“Vous avez jusq-au le comte de dix à partir et oublier cette conversation,” Hair Gel snarls over his megaphone, glancing leeward over the side of his boat. 

So. A mistake in his deduction. Not a hit on him at all, more likely low level criminals, smugglers a likely option given the seam on the side leading to a hidden compartment--excellent.

“Vous m’approchez moi je vous décalissir comme vous n’avez jamais vu,” he throws back to keep up appearances, but there’s no real malice in his voice. The growl is only there to keep up some pretence at all of the level of hostility expected in this kind of interaction. Sherlock is already turning the boat around. 

He heads farther out to sea, one name in his mind, echoing in time with the sound of the waves on the side of his boat--  
John, John. 

Almost there.


	7. Saltando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Unpopcultural for the beta read! I really appreciate it xo  
> \--  
> This is a shorter chapter, a bit of a teaser really. Sorry about that...the next one will (probably) be a lot longer. Cheers, and thanks for reading!

NSY Pub night. You coming? GL

Probably. JW

I tap out my reply with one finger, the rest of my hand covered in shaving cream and my razor (also covered in shaving cream) held in the other hand. Normally I wouldn’t shave just for this, but I intend to come clean to Lestrade tonight about the cases, and being cleanly shaven will make me look more put-together and credible and not insane, which is the look I’m going for, so. I shave for Greg Lestrade, apparently. Mary would have...

I freeze. It’s been a while since I thought about Mary. All of the thoughts that one could have, I’ve had; I’ve followed all of the trails of logic and conversation down to all of the possible outcomes in my head but they all seem to lead to the same reality that I am living in now, which is: divorced after an embarrassingly short marriage after a short engagement. 

“I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes,” I had said while knowing that I absolutely would shave for Sherlock Holmes, my face, my hair, my legs, anywhere. “John, it’s for a case,” he might have said, steepling his hands in front of his face and considering my appearance critically. And I would have done it. Of course I would have. And now, with my 20/20 hindsight, I can see that Mary could see that as well. She’d let it drop at the time, but that had been the beginning. After he.... after, for the second time (bloody hell Watson, some corner of my mind criticizes, why can’t you say SHERLOCK IS FUCKING GONE AGAIN OH GOD even inside your own head)--and I’ve nicked my chin, and where is the damn tissue? It’s bleeding and bleeding and apparently I’ve done a bit more than nicked it, and my hands are shaking as I press the tissue to my face, and when I pull it off after counting to sixty in my head I know I will need (five, I find out later) stitches.

After that I never brought him up, never said Sherlock fucking Holmes’ name out loud, barely even thinking his name, carefully avoiding anything connected with him, anyone connected with him. Thinking that would solve it, but apparently that made things worse, and then Mary was accusing me of pining, can you believe it? Me, John H. Watson, MD: pining? I do nothing of the sort. 

But once she’d said the words out loud it was like flipping a switch in my brain and Sherlock fucking Holmes was the only name, the only thing on my mind. One day while I was at work I suppose Mary was busy, because I came home to find my stuff neatly boxed up and sitting on the doorstep, and the locks changed on the door. (And window. I’m not ashamed to admit that I checked.) Well, after that there was only one place that I knew I could go, no questions asked (for a couple days at least, until Mrs. Hudson’s curiosity overcame her), so I went there, and that’s why I’m here at 221B Baker Street shaving (poorly) with shaking hands and a limp.

Because that’s back, now he’s--fucking gone. Sherlock fucking bloody Holmes is gone and I, John Watson, am an absolute wreck. Finally admitting it to myself, not even out loud, does absolutely nothing to help.

I glance at my phone again, and with the one finger that’s clean of shaving cream and blood tap over to the last message from him. Because that’s what it was, it has to be. I did some reading online, looked up about those messages, and there’s no reason for it to have been split in half like that. The collective wisdom of the Internet has assured me that the phone’s operating system would never have done that on its own. When the impossible has been eliminated…

Is it possible to miss someone so much you start to think like him, start to turn into him? Because I’m a little afraid that’s what’s happening. I spent three hours researching error messages that different phone operating systems send when messages cannot be delivered, for goodness’ sake. I highly doubt this is something I would have done before Sherlock fucking bloody Holmes. I would have been idly curious and then let it go. But I had to know, had to find some kind of proof that being sick in a wastepaper bin at work (on a Thursday, which made it worse, because then I had to go back in the next day and see the pitying expressions on the nurses’ and secretaries’ and other doctors’ faces telling me that they knew) and going home and drinking far too much whiskey had at least some solid meaning behind it. 

It hasn’t happened again since then. I don’t know what he was trying to say with that message, but I’m listening now, Sherlock. 

I’m listening.


	8. Pesante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best laid plans...Sherlock's boat trip goes a bit awry. He is detained by an unknown party and tortured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the real chapter 8! Thank you all for reading and a million thank yous to the wonderful Unpopcultural for beta reading!
> 
> I've upped the rating a bit because of the violent parts in this chapter and added some tags to hopefully let you know what you're in for. I don't want to blindside anyone.

Chapter 8:

I’m listening, Sherlock.  
I’m listening.

His phone buzzed, and he rolled over on the floor of the little fishing boat and reached for it. Texts from John? Ah, he must have worked it out then, Sherlock thought, smiling to himself. He put the phone in his pocket, and looked up just in time to see the small missile splinter through the deck of his boat.

\--

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, lying on a concrete floor on his side, some objects in front of his nose...He blinked slowly. His eyelids felt heavier than they normally did and it took a bit longer than usual for the objects to come into focus.

A thick rubber band. A lighter. A spoon. A small jar. A needle.

His stomach turned and he found himself scrabbling backwards with revulsion, the word NO screaming through his mind. He wasn’t conscious of actually screaming, but he must have, because a voice from behind him chuckled.

“John? Is that who you think brought you here?” The voice was amused, but there was something beneath the amusement. Something sharp, predatory. Sherlock became aware that he must have screamed John’s name. He scowled.

“I’m not going to touch it,” he said, aware as the words left his mouth that he sounded like a petulant child who refused to eat his dinner.

“Do you think so little of me?” The voice chuckled again. Sherlock was rapidly becoming impatient with this conversation in spite of how satisfied and amused the other participant seemed to be. He struggled to sit up (Why? Ah. Hands handcuffed behind back. How dull. Sherlock resolved to pickpocket his gaoler at the first opportunity. In his experience, kidnappers were frequently unimaginative enough to carry the keys to handcuffs on their person.), then turned around to see a man sitting in a chair.

Age: about forty, getting a bit portly, black suit (Westwood), black mother-of-pearl cufflinks, no tie. Shoes has been shined recently. Both suit and shoes were very clean, no traces of mud or animal hair to give him the foundations of a deduction. Very well--that in itself was telling. So someone who liked his suits very clean, who either took the care to clean his shoes thoroughly himself or with the ability to pay to have them cleaned, and the (definitely) Wedgewood suit would suggest the latter--Sherlock raised his eyes to examine the man’s face, and that was when he knew he was in trouble.

The eyes were flat and cold, with only the barest hint of anticipation. The lines in the man’s forehead said cruelty, and anticipation, and added to the laugh and the expression in those eyes and the well-muscled build and the thin, predatory smile meant one thing: this was a man who had hurt others, and enjoyed it. This was a torturer.

Sherlock was aware that he had shivered, and forced himself to stop. Emotion would not help him here.

“Of course you won’t touch it,” the man continued, gazing straight at Sherlock, who refused to hold eye contact. Sherlock’s eyes darted around, searching for anything in the room that could be used as a weapon. Excluding anything concealed upon the man’s person, there was nothing in the room except for the five hateful objects in front of him and the chair upon which the man sat.

“Not at first. Not without a little--” the man paused, his flat smile reaching a little to his eyes. He stood up from the chair and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting, taking his time until he stood behind Sherlock.

Sherlock saw a flash of metal, and then a screaming pain lit through his back. “Encouragement.” The sudden stab, the invasion, the sharp, bright, wrongness of it knocked him to the side and Sherlock struggled to sit up again. His back felt wet, and he willed himself to ignore it.

“We will play for a little while,” the man continued, lingering on the word “play” as if he were savouring it, “and then we’ll see how you feel. You might want some relief, might you not?“ He traced the knife along Sherlock’s collarbone as he spoke, barely applying any pressure, but the skin split and angry, biting pain swarmed through Sherlock’s brain. He fought it down, imagining his higher reasoning shoving the pain aside and forcing it below the surface of a lake. He wasn't sure if he managed not to cry out.

“You might find our games tiring, and wish for some rest?” His captor mused, almost to himself, and this time he traced the bridge of Sherlock’s nose with his knife.

It was a very, very sharp knife, Sherlock deduced dully, because the man was hardly applying any pressure this time either, and yet the (he forced down the word, not allowing himself to think it) was almost more than he could take. Why were there so many damn nerve endings on the skin of his nose anyway? Must remember to ask John at the first opportunity.

“Him again!” The man dug the point of the knife into Sherlock’s shoulder, wiggling it around a little, and Sherlock whimpered. He supposed he must have said John’s name again. “You won’t even be able to think about him when we’re done here,” the man hissed, suddenly angry.

He slid the knife from Sherlock’s shoulder, causing him to gasp involuntarily, and wiped it on a handkerchief pulled from his pocket.

The man walked slowly over to the place on the floor where Sherlock had woken up and picked up the jar, shaking a small amount of something. (No, Sherlock insisted to himself. There is no need to pretend to deduce what is in that bottle. You know.) into the spoon. He uncapped the bottle and picked up the lighter, and Sherlock heard the hiss of the lighter fluid combusting. His body knew what was next even if his mind refused to acknowledge it and he forced himself not to look as the man drew the liquid up into the needle, then reached for the rubber band and turned around...

Sherlock tried to roll away, felt the biting pain again as some loose gravel on the cold concrete flood gritted into the wound on his back, but he tried to ignore it and put more space between himself and the man, because he could not, could not let him--

The last thing that Sherlock remembered was a large mass moving quickly towards his head. He ducked, but his reactions were slow, dulled by pain and stiffness.

\---

When Sherlock opened his eyes again he glanced immediately from left to right, dread heavy in his stomach, scanning the crooks of his elbows for the mark. A small red puncture, perfectly positioned over the vein. Sherlock moaned, trying to sit up. The clotted blood over the wounds he had sustained (blood clotted, nose feeling sort of...stretched, and a bit itchy--several hours must have elapsed between the previous time of consciousness and now) cracked in places as he moved, and it was with effort that he hauled himself upright.

He was almost relieved when the man walked in the door openly carrying the knife and a filled needle. The cards were on the table, then. This was the plan: he would torture Sherlock, the entire time letting him see that the needle was there, and then at the end...oblivion, and addiction.

Sherlock’s voice cracked a bit from disuse. “Well, get on with it,“ he said, and waited.

The man got on with it.

Some hours later, when Sherlock became aware again, he took inventory of his person. Bruises: surprisingly few, sustained when trying to avoid the first injection. Cuts: several, some deep, but many superficial. Possibly intentional; the man may intend to “play” with him for an extended period of time. Punctures: two. He swallowed. Dehydration level: mild. Floor: concrete. Chair: missing. Clothes: as intact as could be expected. Sherlock shifted so that his hands were, while still handcuffed, at least in front of him, and laid back to count the minutes until withdrawal hit in order to better estimate how long he had been unconscious.

Time passed.

It eventually became clear to Sherlock that withdrawal was not going to happen. _Interesting,_ he thought _. Someone has made a mistake with his dose._  Partly formed plans for escape bloomed before him, and Sherlock grinned.

The door creaked open, and Sherlock quickly wiped the expression from his face.  
\--

I believe that within five days my brother will need your assistance. Specifically, I require you to be in Milford-on-Sea, Sussex, at the weekend. MH

What are you talking about JW

He has ignored me for longer than I can attribute to one of his sulks. MH

Damn it Mycroft JW

You know how I detest field work. A car will be at Baker Street at 7 AM to take you to Milford. It may be nothing, but if my brother is indeed missing, I have reason to suspect the vicinity of Milford. MH

What do you mean missing JW

Sherlock are you there JW

After five minutes, the familiar “This message could not be delivered” has not appeared. John throws on a coat, grabs his doctor’s bag and gun (it’s Sherlock, after all) and leaves the Baker Street apartment, unaware that he’s taking the steps two at a time. He’s not waiting for Mycroft’s damn car.


	9. Affrettando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John (metaphorically) tears his hair out while en route to rescue Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, 
> 
> If you're reading this, thank you for sticking with this fic so far! I've had a HELL of a 2016 and we're only two weeks into it. On new year's day I had a miscarriage at 8 weeks, and coming back from that has been...difficult. My lovely beta Unpopcultural had already returned this chapter and the next two with very helpful comments and edits, so assuming that I continue to morph back into a regular human you will be seeing those chapters soon. Rest assured, I DO intend to finish this fic (and put our poor Baker Street boys out of their pining misery!).
> 
> xx  
> Emily

The taxi ride is a long one, and I spend most of it thinking. “How long do you think it will take?” I had asked, blinking up at him against the sun. “Oh, I’d say no more than six months,” Sherlock had said, an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite identify in his voice.

The conversation from eight months ago echoes in my mind, as though repetition could wring any meaning out of it. It hadn’t been six months after all. Sherlock, you liar. My eyes burn and I blink furiously. Sherlock, you bloody liar.

He said no more than six months, and it had been eight, and what had Mycroft meant by “assistance” anyway? Something violent, that’s for sure. I’ve got my doctor’s bag and some basic first aid supplies, and my Browning, of course. Beyond that...I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared for what this life with Sherlock asks of me.

But that’s not really what it is, is it, says a nagging voice in my mind. Life with Sherlock. This is only half of a life with Sherlock, half of what this life could be.

I have carefully refused these thoughts in Sherlock’s presence as well as his absence; but here in the back seat of a taxi (sod waiting and sod Mycroft. Somehow he’s going to pay for this) I find myself unable to push the thought away--of having a life with Sherlock. Truly having--

Having Sherlock, in every sense of the word with everything it implies. I’ve never brought it up with him beyond that first conversation, where he told me in no uncertain terms that he was married to his work. And I don’t think he’s straight. No, Sherlock is queer as fuck, I can pick up on that much at least. I just--

I don’t know. I don’t know what all he knows about me, about when I was in the army or before. “Three Continents Watson”: he knows about the nickname, at least. I suspect he doesn’t know what it means. I suspect: that my flatmate, my Sherlock, is asexual. I’m not going to be that guy who’s convinced that he can turn the asexual gay. I’m not the prowling, sexually greedy bi man you see on the telly. I’ve too much respect for Sherlock to try to do that to him.

So I’ve been hiding it, hiding how desperately I want him, and for a few weeks I even thought maybe it was a good thing, him going on this mission or case of whatever it is off somewhere. But then one month turned into two and now eight and damn you Sherlock fucking bloody Holmes you better not be dead before I can get to you. Not when you’re so close, finally on English soil if I can believe Mycroft.

And I try to hide it, to bury these thoughts so deep he won’t be able to deduce them, even though I know that normally he can read every thought that crosses my mind. But the texts and the waiting keep dredging everything back up to the surface and I don’t know if I can bury it anymore.

Maybe I shouldn’t bury it. Maybe I should just let the cat out of the bag, so to speak. Tell him how I feel and see what he does. But the one thing that would be worse than never truly having Sherlock is losing him completely. Losing his friendship. And if he is asexual, as I suspect, he’s not going to want a relationship. He’ll leave, I can’t see any way around it, and that is the one thing I truly could not stand.

So where does that leave me? “I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and don’t you dare fucking leave me again?” I can’t say that to him and I can’t trust myself not to say it, can’t trust the words not to spill out the instant I see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my mind, Watson is bisexual. I am not. While I have read up on bisexuality and read interviews with bi folks, I am likely to make mistakes while writing him. I'd appreciate any suggestions or constructive criticism on how I can write a more realistically bisexual Watson. I myself am asexual and the version of Sherlock that I write will be informed by that. I don't claim to speak for asexuals in general or really any ace folks other than myself.


	10. Rubato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 10! I know a lot of people hate to read works in progress, as we've all been disappointed by that one amazing fic that was never finished, so I really appreciate everyone who has been reading along with me or who is starting to read along now! I have one more chapter after this one already written and beta read by the wonderful Unpopcultural, and I'm starting to plan out where I want the rest of this fic to go. As always I welcome your comments and suggestions, and thank you for reading!

Chapter 10

It was the same pattern every day. Sherlock had previously been quite confident in his ability to tune out pain, but now his mastery over his body’s myriad weaknesses rose to new heights. He drew his consciousness deep into his mind palace while his captor did his work. 

The sharp prick of the needle on the skin of his inner arm was his signal to return his awareness to his body. Sherlock had been inside his mind palace before while high, and it was not an experience he cared to repeat if at all possible. 

Sherlock soon learned that the man responsible for his captivity was possessed of limited creativity. Sherlock felt confident that he could have devised much more painful and interesting tortures using the implements the man had employed thus far. This thought, and a few others, helped to keep him sane in the weeks that followed his awakening in the dank room.

The man was never inventive. If he had a knife, he cut or gouged with it. If he had a pack of cigarettes, he burned with them. That visit had been particularly difficult for Sherlock. It never even occurred to the man to use his lighter for something other than lighting the cigarettes with which to burn Sherlock.

“Dull,” he had hissed as the fifth lit cigarette sank into his back, ashy and hot, and the man was hardly capable of understanding that Sherlock referred to anything other than his pitiable torture techniques. That had been the tenth visit from the man in twice as many days. (Why wait so long between visits? Sherlock knew by that point that the man did not intend to kill him. Perhaps he thought his...work was more destructive than it actually was, and intended for the detective to heal, however perfunctorily, during those intervals.) This was the first visit involving burning, which turned out to be more difficult to ignore than the knives. 

And yet, when the man stopped, apparently regarding the fourteen ragged dots along Sherlock’s right shoulder as sufficient, and drew a vial and syringe out of his suit jacket’s pocket (Westwood again, and a different one every day. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if this design house gave a discount to sadistic lunatics), Sherlock knew what had to come next, what the man would expect if he were truly the addict—

Sherlock carefully rearranged his face into an expression of pure need, then held his arm out. It didn’t matter that his arm shook; it would be read as the shaking of desire, not the shaking of revulsion that it actually was. Sherlock closed his eyes when he felt a sweaty hand around his upper arm…  
*   
He tried to sleep off the highs, in order to better resist addiction. The less pleasure he remembered having from the experience, the easier it would be to break it when he got free. Sherlock was 85% sure that his addiction had not yet returned in full force; the small amounts of cocaine remained insufficient to bring back the hateful symptoms of withdrawal.

When he awoke, he dragged his consciousness into a newly created room of his mind palace--a situation room at the Yard.   
“Right,” Sherlock said, planting himself in front of a whiteboard with a marker.   
“What do we know?“ Molly, Lestrade, and Mycroft stood around him in a small semicircle.

“We know you’re in England,“ Molly said, fiddling with the pocket of her lab coat. “The dirt on the floor in the room where he keeps you is chalky, Sussex dirt. Could be near Dover.“ 

“Good.” Sherlock wrote “dirt” and “Dover?” on the board. 

“He isn’t going to kill you, at least not without some other interference,” Lestrade offered, shrugging. 

“Good,” Sherlock said again, and wrote “no murder” on the board. “What else?”

“You’re forgotten the most important thing, as usual,” Mycroft said, his words slow and precise. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And that would be what, exactly?“

“I know where you were when you lost consciousness originally, in your boat,” Mycroft said. “If I can deduce where he would have taken you from that location, well--” Mycroft waved at the board, at Molly and Lestrade. “Then all of this is unnecessary.“ 

The hinges on the door to the situation room squeaked only slightly as they opened and John Watson strode into the room. 

“There’s one more thing you’ve missed,” John said, his voice quiet and dangerous.


	11. Segue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading along, and especially to everyone who comments! Comments are my muse <3

John leaned around the corner: hallway clear. He ran to the door and put an ear to it, and when he didn’t hear anything from the other side, shot the lock with his Browning and kicked it open. 

And there he was, finally, finally. Sherlock must have heard him coming, because he stood in the middle of the room, barefoot, handcuffed, no shirt, looking--well. Looking like a mess, but a non-life-threatening mess, John thought. He dropped everything he was carrying at the door and crossed the room in very few steps, pulled the taller man into a hug. Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened, and he made a noise that might have been the beginning of a protest, and John put his hand in his hair, holding him closer. 

“Shush,” he said quietly. “Can I--I need...” For some reason, these inexpressive mumblings were reassuring to Sherlock, who seemed to melt a little bit against him. John wondered with a little thrill of fear if Sherlock was deducing anything about him from this, then intentionally stopped wondering.

“John,” Sherlock began, his voice muffled into John’s coat, and the words coming out a bit slurred--Jaawn. “John, you are a friend and an Englishman.” John wasn’t sure what to say about that, so he patted Sherlock’s curls awkwardly.

After a few minutes John cleared his throat and stepped back to retrieve what he had dropped at the door. “Right. I brought you some things,” he said, passing Sherlock his coat. “Your lock picks are in the pockets.” John continued to refuse to think about what Sherlock may have learned from his actions thus far.

“You got these from Mycroft.” It wasn’t a question, and Sherlock’s tone gave away nothing. Sherlock dropped the coat, then sat down next to it and began fishing in the pockets for his lock picks. 

“Well....yes, he’s the one that found you. He texted me. You know, because he won’t ever do his own field work,” John said, slightly defensively.

Sherlock looked up as he finished picking the lock on his handcuffs (intolerable that he should have failed to pickpocket the key off of his idiot gaoler for so long) and glared at nothing in particular until a spot of colour on John’s (predictably awful) jumper caught his eye. 

“I bled on you,” Sherlock said guiltily.

“Sherlock Holmes, you are welcome to bleed on me any day of the year,” John said. “No, sorry, that didn’t come out quite right. What I mean is--“ 

Sherlock felt this was not going well. He had expected that John would be upset at him for disappearing again. Or ask him about the text messages. Or be angry that Sherlock had not included him in his mission. Not that “John getting angry with him” was what he meant by “going well“. This entire train of thought was not going well either, and Sherlock gave up on it and held his arm out to John. 

“Sherlock, what the hell?“ 

“Er. We’re dealing with some sort of copycat, I think. Seems to admire Moriarty, dresses like him anyway, sometimes mimics things he said on TV when he was--before Bart’s. Think he was playing ‘discredit the detective’ his own way, or trying to. Stupid though. Didn’t calculate his doses right. Didn’t give me anywhere near as much as I was taking, back when-- when. He never gave me enough to, you know. I’m not addicted.” Sherlock said all of this very quickly. John was moving, and weirdly. Swaying back and forth a little, like he was trying to dance but didn’t quite know how.

The floor was very close, and there was blood on John’s shoes. It was fresh, judging from the colour and viscosity. 

“Fucking hell,” John hissed, getting a glimpse of Sherlock’s back for the first time. “I am going to fucking kill whoever did this to you.”

John knelt down beside Sherlock and pulled a flashlight out of his doctor’s bag. “I should have checked you over first thing. You’ve lost a lot of blood, haven’t you.“ It wasn’t a question. 

“He was just playing, he said,” Sherlock tried to sound dignified, like someone who had not just unintentionally and abruptly relocated his face to the floor, but the words came out as a cracked sort of whisper. “I don’t think he planned to kill me. Wanted me alive, addicted. I’m not. Wasn’t enough to do that.” Sherlock sounded almost petulant. John thought he felt a headache coming on. This was rapidly becoming more complicated than the “shoot kidnappers, get Sherlock out” plan he had gone in with.

“I don’t care what he wanted,” John said, as he put an arm under Sherlock’s less-injured shoulder and dragged him to his feet.”Disinfecting and dressing this disaster-” John waved at Sherlock “-is going to be painful for both of us and not a trivial amount of work, and I’d rather not do it here. We are leaving now, and you are going to stand up and try to walk.“ 

John stuffed Sherlock’s arms through the sleeves of his coat to try to bring a modicum of decorum to this escape (and to remove distractions), then turned to pick up his bag and gun. Sherlock became reacquainted with the floor. 

John also felt that this was not going well. He had frankly not expected Sherlock to be in such poor condition, and had in fact counted on him being able to walk out. He had also had some vague idea that when he finally found Sherlock, his errant, probably-asexual flatmate would finally deduce some....things, and then John wouldn’t have to say those things, and then maybe other things would happen, or maybe they would not, but most of all nobody would go to A&E and probably be admitted and have to stay overnight at the very least. And this talk of drugging, and someone trying to reestablish Sherlock’s addiction was just not cricket. Even Moriarty hadn’t gone there.

Mycroft had not warned him (had not known?) about the condition that Sherlock would be in by the time John got there, and John found that he was deeply unprepared to see Sherlock this way. 

“Johhhn,” came a quiet voice from the floor. “I want to leave.”

“Damn straight.“ John put an arm around Sherlock’s waist (nope, not thinking about that, not the time, he ordered himself), hauled him to his feet for the second time, flopped one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulders, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the door.


	12. Diminuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The escape continues. 
> 
> And it had taken him some time, longer than he cared to admit, but Sherlock had eventually worked out that Doctor John “Not Gay” “Three Continents” Watson was bisexual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, if you are still here thank you for sticking with me though a medical disaster, move to a different state, and job change! I am hoping that I will have time to work on this fic more now that my life has chilled out a bit.
> 
> As always, a million thank yous to Unpopcultural, who beta read this chapter. THANK YOU <3 <3

Sherlock stumbled along beside John, trying to button up his coat with disobedient, shaky fingers. John’s arm around his waist was the only thing currently keeping him standing. The past weeks at the hands of his imbecilic captor had left Sherlock weaker than he cared to admit, in both body and mind.

How else could he rationalize to himself his response when John had appeared in his cell, looking every bit the part of the dashing rescuer? 

And then John had hugged him, and Sherlock had allowed it. There really was no other word Sherlock could assign to John’s actions. Was this just a bromance thing? Sherlock wasn’t sure. He wasn’t entirely convinced that the term was even real--Molly had introduced him to the concept, saying that she had learned it off one of those misspelt blogging websites, and suggesting that it might be an apt description of what he had with John. More intense than a simple friendship, but not sexual. Sherlock supposed that the term didn’t matter much so long as John stayed with him. And if you averaged it out over time (which Sherlock did), yes, they both had left but they had both eventually returned, and stayed. He supposed that at the moment it might not look that way to John, but he was not supposed to know that this current disaster of a mission had been intended to be fatal. 

At any rate, there seemed to be nothing inherently offensive in the term, and (in his mind at least, never out loud) Sherlock had cautiously adopted it. The word glowed a bit when he thought of it, but Sherlock didn’t examine that particular feeling any more closely. 

Because if John had wanted their ...whatever it was to be more than whatever this was, he would have done something toward that end. John had no qualms in asking people in whom he was interested out on dates. Or even picking up strangers in pubs. Sherlock had seen a preponderance of evidence that attested to this fact. 

And it had taken him some time, longer than he cared to admit, but Sherlock had eventually worked out that Doctor John “Not Gay” “Three Continents” Watson was bisexual. Of this Sherlock was certain. All available evidence indicated that John was not interested in Sherlock. 

Or had been, before John had bloody gone and hugged him, and patted his hair, and shushed him when he tried to ask what on earth was happening. This, the mind palace copy of Molly assured him, was a shade outside the realm of the standard bromance. The logical course of action at this point would be to gather more data and try to infer John’s meaning. 

Or would be, if Sherlock felt capable of executing any higher-level brain functions at all at the moment. Stumbling along aside John as they made a relatively slow escape from this (apparently) underground bunker brought into crystal focus just how much the past few weeks had taken out of him. 

John, in contrast, seemed to have transformed entirely into ‘Captain Watson’ mode, for which Sherlock was grateful. 

“Right, around this corridor there should be a maintenance hatch and a ladder,” John said, leaning too close to Sherlock’s ear. “If you think you can climb it, that would be the safest escape route. Lowest chance of encountering any hostiles.”

“How…?” Sherlock managed to get only the first word of his question out, but John seemed to understand anyway. 

“Mycroft, of course. This bunker isn’t new. He found blueprints to the three locations he thought it possible you were being held, and I memorized all of them.”

“You memorized them.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the note of incredulity from his voice. His John Watson, memorize anything more detailed than a shopping list? Half the time he couldn’t even get those right. 

His disbelief must have showed, because John laughed softly. 

“I have done this before, you know. Trained for it, in fact. The Fifth’s main assignment in Afghanistan was extracting captured noncombatants from occupied territory.” John tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist. “Now. Are you going to be able to make it up that ladder?”

Sherlock leaned around the corner and eyed the ladder with distrust. John had not yet seen his feet and didn’t know about the layer of first-degree burns Sherlock had been walking on thus far without complaint. He took a deep breath. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, slouching back against the wall, he lifted his left foot so that John could inspect its underside. “They’re both the same, ”he said quietly, his voice flat and utterly without inflection. 

“Fucking--oh,” John said with a sharp intake of breath. “We’ve been walking for twenty minutes, Sherlock! You should have bloody well said something earlier,” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down in case any hostiles were nearby. 

“What was I supposed to say?” Sherlock demanded, snatching his foot out of John’s hands. “Come on, the ladder. Let’s go,” he said, nodding towards the ladder. 

“I don’t like this at all,” John grumbled. “When we get home, I’m putting burn cream on those feet and bandaging them and you will stay off them for as long as I say to.” 

 

Privately, Sherlock felt John was making a bit much of these burns, but he decided that this was not the time to argue about the length of the convalescence that John would indubitably force upon him. 

John reluctantly followed Sherlock around the corner, and they climbed the ladder, Sherlock first, John watching and cringing as with each step, the narrow metal rungs dug into the burned, stiff skin of Sherlock’s feet. Seventeen steps later, John was crowded up behind Sherlock, standing on the rung directly below him and reaching up to push open the heavy iron plate that was the only thing remaining between them and escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst :/ Sherlock has some wrong ideas about a lot of things.


	13. Forte Agitato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In John’s experience, a rescue operation that seems to be going well is always about to go completely to shit.

After more or less manhandling Sherlock up the ladder and out through the metal hatch, John steps outside after him. Sherlock’s on the ground again, trying to look casual, but John knows that his feet must be killing him by this point. They’re going to need more help getting out of this than he had originally planned for. He leans down, puts an arm around Sherlock’s waist (Necessary for the rescue, he tells himself sternly, does not count as groping.) and drapes Sherlock’s arm over his own shoulders, and straightens. 

“Ok. We should have some help coming, but I don’t see them yet,” John says, scanning the horizon. They’ve emerged at what looks like a small airfield, with a single runway that trails off into an overgrown grassy field, and a narrow road of crumbling cement that presumably leads to other roads that will convey them back to civilization. Or so John hopes. 

His phone buzzes, and he fishes it out of his pocket with the hand that isn’t supporting Sherlock. 

“Hey John, can you come have a look at this body we’ve found?” Lestrade sounds more stressed than usual. “It’s...well, I don’t know what to say about it. But I figure you could take some pictures and text them to him, and look it over yourself...” John gives a little huff of laughter. He never did get around to coming clean to Lestrade, and now he actually could show Sherlock a picture of this latest crime scene…

“I can’t today, I’m, er...out of town,” John finishes lamely. 

“Fine, I’m texting you some pictures but only if you promise to send them to him right away,” Lestrade pleads. “We’re really out of our depth here.”

John glances over at Sherlock, who immediately tries to look innocent and not at all like someone who is eavesdropping intently on his conversation with Lestrade.

“Look, I have to go,” John says, and hangs up on him.

“What’s Lestrade on about? He thinks you’ve been texting me pictures of bodies?” Sherlock fixes John with a puzzled look. 

“Long story, I’ll tell you later,” John promises. “Right now I would really like to get out of here and have a look at those burns.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but nods. “Fine.”

 

In John’s experience, a rescue operation that seems to be going well is always about to go completely to shit. He is therefore more exasperated than surprised when a man who he immediately dubs Moriarty Cosplayer, due to his Westwood suit and slicked-back haircut,appears in front of them, waving a gun. Of course. Of course he has a fucking gun. 

“I believe you have something of mine, Doctor Watson,” Cosplay Moriarty says in an imitation of Moriarty’s singsong accent. 

John rolls his eyes. “I’m not having this conversation with a man in a Halloween costume,” he says. “Piss off.” He considers pulling out his gun, but dismisses the idea. No need to escalate this prematurely. Cosplay Moriarty doesn’t seem too stable. He’s swaying back and forth and half the time isn’t even pointing his pistol at John, Sherlock, or anything in particular. 

“Give me back my little pet and you’re free to go,” Cosplay Moriarty states, and Sherlock stiffens. 

“Piss. Off.” John says. Cosplay Moriarty leers at them. Or more probably, at Sherlock.

He feels a flinch of movement at his side, and then there is a bang, and Cosplay Moriarty is hopping on one foot and cursing imaginatively. 

“Here love, let me,” John says, gently taking the gun back from Sherlock. Their hands brush as he does and Sherlock shivers; only then does John’s brain catch up to what his traitorous mouth has said, but there’s no time to deal with that. Cosplay Moriarty is limping towards them, his gun still wavering in his hand but its sights still set too closely on the detective for John’s liking. He shoots once and the man falls. 

John thumbs the safety back on his gun, then sticks it in the back of his waistband.

“That’s him sorted. Now come on, Molly or someone should be along,” John says, wiping the powder burns on his fingers along his jeans. Does Sherlock’s eye follow the motion of his hands as he does, or is that wishful thinking? John can’t be sure.


End file.
